


thrashing the covers off, it has me by it's teeth

by cicadas



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drug Use, First Meetings, M/M, Overdose, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 03:04:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14886434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicadas/pseuds/cicadas
Summary: Wade doesn't resist the lull as it pulls his brain to the back of his skull.He heard it. He found him. That's enough.He can pretend he's loved, now. It'll be enough.It has to be enough.





	thrashing the covers off, it has me by it's teeth

The dorm room is cold.

It's always so fucking cold.

 

He's got the window open, but that doesn't matter, does it? Wind's gonna get in anyway. Sneak around the architraves, seep in through the glass. He read somewhere that glass never fully solidifies. It stays liquid. That's why old houses have windows with glass so much thicker at the bottom than at the top. He's never seen a window like that in person, but he believes the article. It might've been in a magazine. He doesn't remember.

There are magazines on his desk. One on cars he'd found amongst abandoned food in the cafeteria, a _National Geographic_ and some lewd porno mag with a woman's spread legs on the cover. He fucking despises it, but doesn't know how to dump it without it being seen, so it stays on the desk he doesn't have a chair for. He'd bought it after his last roommate changed schools - there was a fight between them, he ended up breaking his nose and one of his ribs. They'd wanted to expel him, but the family didn't want to press charges, and the guy was un-enrolled by the end of the week anyway. Wade was able to stay, but he wasn't to room with another person unless absolutely necessary. So far the situation hasn't come up. So Wade bought a desk.

He can probably think of better uses for the money, staring at it now.

Coffee. Cigarettes. Maybe a sheet to hang over the window; He'd broken the cord of the blinds some time ago, but didn't want to report it in case he had to pay for the damages.

 

There's a line carving out the paint on one of the legs. Against the wall, closest to the door. He hasn't noticed that before.

 

The list is still on the floor beside his bed.

Lines rip through the other side of the paper where he'd crossed off his options. The ones he was scared of, or didn't want to wait to plan.

He'd decided against injecting. It'd be faster that way, he knew that, but he didn't like the idea of relying on his hands to drive the needle home. He was shaky at the best of times. He wanted to be sure. He didn't think he had enough left in his stash to overdo it anyway. He had to be sure.

He already had a prescription for insomnia.

 

 

There's noise somewhere, probably from next door - he knows one of the guys that live there - Johnny something - but the other one is a recluse. He's heard him talk, laugh, yell once, but hasn't seen his face.

Something moves in the corner of his eye, and his vision swims when he turns his head to look at it. He feels something soft against his cheek and realises it's his mattress. Was he standing before? If he was, he's kneeling now, knees digging into the bare wood panelling of the floor, face tilted against the side of his bed like he fell asleep while praying.

He doesn't pray.

Mama prayed. Now Mama's dead. These prayers aren't working for me anymore. Isn't that a song?

He's not sure.

 

He can't remember what the name of his Mama's perfume was.

She wore it all the time. Every day, it was so pretty, and he asked her once what it was. Planned on buying her some once the bottle she had got low, but he never did. She stopped wearing it once she started the cancer treatment - the smell was too heady and the fumes irritated her lungs, so she put it under the sink. After that, she smelled like skin and sweat and something wrong. Like sickness. Antiseptic smells the same as vodka, which smells the same as nail polish remover. Mama had this pink-y colour on her nails most times. He remembers the smell. They all make him want to vomit now.

There was vodka spilled on the floor at a party in one of the rooms nearby. It was quiet, not many people. He was invited. He didn't know who invited him because the room was filled with strangers when he stepped into it, but he recognised the alcohol when his face was shoved into it. He hadn't spilled the bottle, someone else had, and they weren't angry at him. They just wanted him to drink. He had a bruise on his eyebrow the next day from where his head was smacked against the floor, once, twice, then turned so his face was pressed into the puddle, lips burning from the liquid. They let him up when he pressed his mouth to the ground and sucked.

He was helped up by the same guy who pushed him down.

 

 

There's a noise again. Someone's yelling next door, and Wade wants to get up to bang on the wall but his arm feels heavy and all-too-light at the same time. Like it's not really there. Like he's underwater.

Maybe he is underwater.

No. He can't breathe underwater. He's in his dorm room.

Where's the bottle?

He planned it out. Take the half he saved and some of the refill, then wait until things get blurry to take the rest. He had to be sure. If he threw up and he'd taken them all at once, he wouldn't have extra to take. They wouldn't have absorbed by then- they wouldn't work. He has to be sure. Needs to find the bottle.

It's orange. Something he finds funny. They should be white, or even clear. The small, round pills look like Tic-Tac's through the orange plastic.

He can't find the bottle.

 

He shifts his knee, heavy under the weight of his body, and leans upward, bit by bit, until he's upright. He thinks so. It's gotten dark out, and he didn't turn the light on before. There's a strip of yellow on the wall where the door is ajar. Didn't he close it? He can't remember. Not important. He needs to find the bottle.

The room spins in a tiny circle as he gets to his feet. Desk, floor, walls, bed, dresser- Ah. In the drawer. He put it there to hide it, just in case. He can't remember why - he doesn't have a roommate, and nobody visits, so there was no reason to hide it under his underwear. Doesn't matter.

His body feels light as he makes his way to the dresser, digs up the underwear he hasn't bothered to fold, takes the bottle out of a pair of tube socks.

It rattles as he twists the lid off.

 

There's more than he remembers leaving. He should have water. Maybe count them. He has to be sure.

 

He'd drank bourbon only once before ten minutes ago. Papa's, maybe? When he was younger cans and bottles were as common as cutlery, and he couldn't read.

He remembered this, however. Papa's favourite, right next to scotch. He'd poured him a glass when he was maybe ten, neat, no ice, and sipped at it before handing it over. It burned, and the aftertaste was like syrup. Papa had seen him do it, but just laughed instead of giving him a hiding. Said it was about time he started manning up and having a drink.

He bought the bottle secondhand - Liquor stores around here were especially strict on carding anyone without wrinkles or a beard, being so close to a college, and Wade had neither.

It took him a fair two hours to get through the bottle. It was a small, plastic thing - held half of the full thing, he supposed, but it was cheaper, and he didn't want to risk throwing up. He had to be sure.

He left himself water for the pills on the desk.

He doesn't bother with it.

 

The dry, acidic taste burns his tongue as he crushes the pills against his teeth, using whatever saliva is left in his mouth to swallow them down. It's hard. They hurt, and something scratches inside his throat and he doesn't feel very well at all.

 

A pain shoots up from his ass to his back to his head, and he reaches out to grab the dresser in front of him. It's not there. Fuck. Legs stretch out against something smooth and he realises that he's  _on the floor._

There's two pills stuck in his cheek, mouth too dry and tongue too heavy to dislodge them. He can feel the churn of his stomach, upset by the sudden movement of the fall. He can't throw up. He can't.

No. He won't. So he sits. Feels like he's upside down but his ass is cold against the floorboards. Still there.

 

There's a bang on the wall, and he can hear the sound of a door opening - closing, maybe? They sound the same.

The strip of light in the room goes out for a moment, and Wade blinks at it.

Eyes close, open, close.

 

"Hello?"

 

Open. Light's back. It's so bright now. Yellow. Is he hallucinating? He's hallucinated before, outside of drug use. Saw a spider crawl across his wall when lying in bed once: came out of nowhere, disappeared into nothing.

 

"Anyone in here? I just wanted to apologise for the noise,"

 

Someone's speaking to him.

 

"I hope you don't mind if I- Holy shit"

 

It's a boy. Maybe a girl. He's met a girl who sounded like a boy once. It might be her. No, she's in Canada. Ha, like the classic 'imaginary girlfriend'. He didn't know her that well. Didn't know her at all, really.

There's something warm on his shoulder. He's still sitting. That's good. He hasn't thrown up. That's great.

"Hey, hey, are you okay?" The voice is very close now, breathy and calm against his ear. He can't see who it is, and it takes Wade a moment to realise he has his eyes closed. Silly.

"What was in that bottle? I can't- There's no label, I need you to tell me what you took so I can help you, please-"

 

It's a boy. Boy-man. He's swimming with the room, blurring in and out of focus, brown hair sticking up like pins in a pin cushion. Ha, pin cushion. That's a funny word, because it's not really a cushion. Like on a couch. Like a pillow. Wade's pillow is on his bed. He's on the floor.

He doesn't feel so good.

Please, he needs to throw up, it's hurting now-

 

"Oh my god, hey, it's okay, just lean against me, alright? You're okay. You're okay." The voice is soft. Huffs of warm breath feel sickly hot against his skin - is he being hugged? No, no, he's bent forward, his forehead is pressed against this stranger's shoulder. His neighbour. It isn't Johnny - Johnny wouldn't apologise for being a loud asshole, but maybe the mysterious roommate would.

"Hey, come on, talk to me, say anything. _Please?_ "

 

He sounds sad. Desperate? He's read the word but never used it. Desperate. Is that what he is? Or was that what Wade himself is? Desperate.

 

"Don't- Hey, you're fine, I've got you."

 

The words are so so soft, and he is comfortable. He should have written this down, added it to his plan. It's a great addition. Warmth.

The room is always so cold.

 

A thank-you gets stuck on Wade's tongue, dry and swollen in his mouth. Slick, hot saliva bubbles around the words, and he finds himself lurching forward, stopped by the body in front of him, holding him.

Vomit rushes out of his mouth in a heave, ripping barbed wire through his throat it comes up. The taste of the alcohol sits on his tongue, and it causes him to heave forward again.

He can hear the voice in his ear as he coughs around the taste in his mouth.

 

"You're okay, you're okay, you're okay," It says. "Keep going, you can throw up on me, I don't care, come on, keep it coming-"

Wade heaves.

"Good job, you're doing great-"

 

Absently, he thinks that this guy should have left him by now. Ran to 'get help' or something. He's seen it shouted out countless times in movies. Mostly when people get shot, though.

He's not sure what the process is for suicide.

 

He's warm.

Vomit clings to his shirt and arms cling to him in return. He hasn't moved his head. Maybe he has.

He can't remember.

He can't remember what he needs to do. He planned it all. He wasn't meant to vomit, he didn't plan for this. He had to be sure he didn't vomit so he timed everything right why did he vomit? he didn't plan for this, he had to be sure, he was so sure-

 

He remembers Mama. She was pretty. Hair dark brown and long and always brushed so nice.

Mama loved him.

 

Mama's dead.

 

 

He wants to speak - to ask his hidden neighbour his name, just so he knows. Wants to know it before he goes, has to know it.

 

"Hm? Hey, did you say something?" The voice is back, and Wade realises maybe his own is working, so he tries again.

"You-" Wade spits, tries once more "Y-Your name?"

It's slow. His mouth isn't working and his lips are numb and the words are in slow motion, but he gets them out. He can feel the urge to vomit bubble up again but he swallows it down.

"Please?"

 

The voice is a huff of breath on the side of his face - hot, he's too hot and the room is cold.

 

"I'm Peter."

 

No, no, no, no-

The beginnings burn over his lower ribs and he wants the boy to stop talking please-

 

"Peter Parker."

 

Fuck.

That's it.

The name.

 _His_ name.

 

The skin burns where the words - black and bold and cursive - burn themselves into his skin as they're spoken aloud by- it's him, why is it him?-

His _soulmate._

 

"Hey, stay with me, alright, you're okay, now, right? Please stay awake, Wade, please-"

 

He knows who he is. Knows his name.

Another gush of vomit comes up and out, and it makes him dizzy. He can't breathe.

 

The part of him that is lingering wants to know- he has to know what's under the boy's shirt, has to see the name, has to be sure-

But he's dizzy. He can't feel the arms on him anymore.

He wants to sleep.

 

_Peter._

 

 

Wade doesn't resist the lull as it pulls his brain to the back of his skull.

 

He heard it. He found him. That's enough.

He can pretend he's loved, now. It'll be enough.

It has to be enough.

 

 

He hears Peter shout something - deafeningly loud against his ear - but he's slipping now. He's falling, and he feels a hand against the base of his skull as his head lolls back.

Dizzy. Sleep. Peter.

 

He closes his eyes, and it's so much easier to drift this way. He can sleep like this. Held.

Safe.

 

 

_"Johnny, for fuck's sake get in here and help me!"_

 

Noise.

 

_"Shit. Dude, what's wrong with this guy?"_

_"I don't know what it was he took but he took a lot of it, please, just- go get a teacher and call a fucking ambulance!"_

_"Okay, fuck, I will,"_

_"Now, Johnny!"_

 

 

Noise.

Far away. Everything is far away.

 

_"Fuck. Fuck, please, be okay, please, please, please, please, I'm sorry, it's not supposed to be like this. I didn't- Fuck, please, I'm sorry, please-"_

 

 

Wade's body is weightless, he's close, he feels-

Nothing.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> -  
> this is not meant to romanticize od'ing or mental illness.
> 
> the relationship is tagged because hmm, technically they are together as it is a soulmate au but hmm they aren't really in a relationship. i tagged it anyway.  
> also mc death isn't tagged cause i wanted the end to be open. he could be okay.
> 
> edit: this is inaccurate in places because i didn't want to spell out how to legitimately overdose for anyone who might not want to see it. myself included.


End file.
